Natalya (32 page)

"A mighty queer arrangement if you ask me," Fedbusk interjected sulkily. Speed stared at him, astonished that the older man would continue to argue with their employer.

"Have you finished?" Grey's tone was cool, but his eyes were sharp as rapiers.

"I suppose so. Just don't expect me to put up with this humdudgeon forever. I understand that you want to find my lady Francesca, and I'm all for it, but when I'm strutting about this house all day trussed up like a turkey I begin thinkin' about
myself,
and I can tell you—"

"I'd rather you didn't, if you don't mind." Grey's voice silenced his childhood friend. "Now then, Speed, perhaps you can bring us up to date on your activities today. I gather that you learned something?"

"Yes, sir." Speed squirmed restlessly and took a sip of brandy. Obviously spying didn't sit too well with him. "After I returned from the market with Mrs. Pritchard, I set out for Hahn's Coffeehouse as you recommended. There I made the acquaintance of Mr. Stringfellow, the proprietor. Upon learning that I was newly arrived from England myself, he served me personally and later joined me for a mug of ale. I told him that I worked for you, sir, and that you had recently visited Lisette Beauvisage, who used to own the coffeehouse, in France. As you suspected, this had quite a rousing effect on Mr. Stringfellow, who..."

Fedbusk yawned loudly and hunched down on his chair as if contemplating a nap. Grey gave him a menacing look but said to Speed, "Perhaps you can give me these details later and proceed to the actual information you received regarding my wife."

"Yes, sir. Once I felt certain that Mr. Stringfellow could be trusted, I mentioned that you were looking for an Englishwoman whom you believed to be in Philadelphia. I then received his promise not to speak of this matter to anyone else and proceeded to describe Lady Altburne. He said that he did indeed know such a woman, though by a different name. She has a small, elegant house nearby on Pine Street, is active in society, and portrays herself as a widow. Mr. Stringfellow said that this woman calls herself Frances Wellbeloved."

Grey, who had been listening intently, now gave a shout of laughter. "Does she indeed? Highly amusing. Now then, Fedbusk, it's your turn."

The crusty seaman jerked his head up as if regaining consciousness. "Eh? Oh, yes. Not much to tell, except that I was sitting in the dining room, resting my achin' feet, when I saw an open carriage pass. 'Twas my lady, sir, clear as day, and more beautiful than ever, which doubtless means that she's more evil as well. I knew what she was the first time I clapped eyes on her before your wedding, but you'd have none of
my
advice—"

"For God's sake, Fedbusk, get on with it!"

"Nothing else to say, is there? She's here, in Philadelphia, and now
you
have to decide what you're goin' to do about it!"

* * *

Caro knocked softly on the dressing room door that connected with Natalya's bedchamber. "Darling? I just wanted to say good night."

"Come in, Maman."

She entered to find her daughter clad in a loose muslin nightgown and sitting in the middle of the field bed, its curved canopy arching toward the shadowed ceiling. Sheets of paper covered with writing were scattered before her across the bed. Oil lamps, lit on each bedside table, afforded the only light.

"It's very late, Talya," Caro exclaimed, crossing the room. "What are you doing?"

"It's part of the manuscript for my new book, Maman. I must begin writing again tomorrow, and I'm trying to return inside the heart and soul of my story." She smiled at her mother, then looked back at the paper in her hand. "But first I must close a door on my own life if I am to do my best writing, and that's rather difficult."

"I should think so—you just arrived home." Caro's tone was slightly injured. "Do you mean to isolate yourself?"

"That would be ideal," Natalya admitted. "It was lovely of you and Papa to offer me Great-Grandmere's cottage, and I can scarcely wait until morning to explore it."

Caro perched on the edge of the bed and reached out to stroke Natalya's brow and the shining curls that cascaded around her shoulders. "My darling, you look like a little girl. It's difficult for me to realize that you are a grown woman of twenty-six who is perfectly capable of ordering her own life. If I am unable to resist giving you advice, you must scold me."

"And then you would stop?" Natalya looked up, eyes twinkling.

"Probably not," Caro admitted, laughing.

"Do you know, I said nearly the same thing to Krissie this morning, so I understand your feelings. It's very hard for me to think of
her
as a grown woman."

"Well, I'm not entirely certain that she is one yet, but that's another subject." They were silent for a few moments, then Caro said, "Your outing in the city must have done you good, or else it put you off such excursions. This morning you were far too preoccupied to think of Grandmere's cottage or your books."

"I confess I am still preoccupied," Natalya said, with a bittersweet smile, "but sometimes I welcome the escape writing affords. It takes me out of myself."

"I had rather hoped that you would postpone writing for a while and simply enjoy your homecoming. It's spring, and there are so many old friends who will be eager to see you and doubtless give parties to celebrate your accomplishments. Philadelphia may boast many authors, but precious few of them are women."

"Maman, I recognize that gleam in your eye! Your thoughts have been running to a match for me, haven't they."

Caro laughed at her daughter's teasing, yet a disquieting feeling persisted within her. "I simply want you to enjoy yourself, darling Talya. I want you to be happy."

"Then you must let me write, Maman. Right now it's what I need most." A strange, confusing wave of emotion swept over her, and tears pricked her eyes. It wouldn't do for her mother to see and wonder, so Natalya looked back down at her papers. The words written there were a blur.

"I will leave you, then, if you promise to go to sleep soon. You need your rest."

"Yes, Maman," she replied, with an obedient smile, and leaned forward to hug her mother. "I love you. Kiss Papa for me."

"I'll be happy to." Caro held her close. "I love you, too, darling, and I am so happy that you have returned to us."

* * *

"I keep telling myself that Talya is twenty-six and does not need a mother to watch over her, but there is something in her eyes that arouses all my maternal instincts." Caro lay back against her pillows, watching Alec shed his robe and climb naked into bed beside her. "Do you think that I am being foolish?"

"Of course not,
cherie
." He turned toward her and rose on an elbow to gaze down at her beloved and beautiful face. How many nights had they lain together thus, discussing the events of their lives in the quiet of nighttime, holding and caressing each other, whether it led to lovemaking or not? It was Alec's favorite hour of the day; the renewal of intimacy between them. "I admit that I have concerns of my own regarding Natalya, but I fear that there is little we can do and say beyond reminding each other that she is fully an adult and must be allowed to live her own life as she sees fit."

Caro groaned and ran her hand over the familiar terrain of his chest, lingering unconsciously over the places she knew were most sensitive. "She seems so
subdued,
and says she wants to shut herself up in Grandmere's cottage and return to writing."

"I know. She told me during the drive home tonight." Alec's own fingers found their way to Caro. He stroked her throat and neck, then gently massaged away the worry lines on her face. "You know, Talya was very preoccupied most of the way from Philadelphia. When I mentioned it, offhandedly, she laughed and said that she was thinking about the new gowns she'd ordered." Alec snorted softy in half-amused disbelief. "Does she take me for a stranger? Then, almost immediately, she began talking about her writing, and there was such relief in her voice, as if she'd forgotten that escape could be so simple."

"You always were a master in the art of deduction," Caro murmured, closing her eyes and savoring his touch.

"Not always; I think I learned it as a means of survival after I became a husband and a father. People rarely say what they really mean, and sometimes they don't know themselves. I love you and our children too much to listen to you only with my ears."

"Perhaps you learned about that from me, love."

"And what did your instincts tell you when you visited our daughter just now? Did she actually
say
anything meaningful, about Grey St. James, perhaps?"

"Perish the thought. His name was never mentioned." Caro felt Alec recline against the pillows and snuggled into the crook of his shoulder, where he held her close. "You know, I've been thinking about something you said earlier. Didn't you tell me that Talya and Grey were upstairs when you arrived, looking for a book she'd loaned him, and that she remained there for quite a while after he joined you—until her search was successful?"

"That's right," he said drowsily, leaning over with his free hand to put out the light. "She said it was a favorite book,
Rene
, and she'd been quite lost without it."

"But, Alec," Caro persisted, looking up to search his face in the shadows, "she had no book when you two came home. She must have left it behind... and hasn't said a word about her error. Don't you find that
odd
in light of earlier events?"

"Yes, but we can worry and deduce all night long and it won't change a damned thing." Alec turned on his side and enfolded his wife in his arms, kissing the nape of her neck. "Go to sleep,
cherie.
Talya's not a child. Hard as it is, you'll have to accept that...."

* * *

When at last her eyes began to sting with fatigue, Natalya blew out the lamps and crawled under the covers. Certain that sleep was moments away, she surrendered, lying back against the snowy pillows and carefully arranging her blankets.

She closed her eyes, then opened them. Moonlight streamed into her room through parted draperies, illuminating the neat stack of papers she had placed on a chair. She turned away toward the wall, but when her face pressed close to the mane of loose hair fanned across her pillow, she caught a faint whiff of Grey in her own silky curls. Her heart quickened and tightened, and tears rose in her throat.

Why am I feeling this way? she cried inwardly. It was nothing, nothing but a pleasurable romp with an immensely attractive man. It was not as if she wanted him to declare his love and beg for her hand in marriage!

Guilt. Natalya settled on that weighty word, deciding that guilt must be to blame for her churning emotions. She had grown up watching her parents' love affair, and somehow the physical act by itself, without love, seemed wrong. Actually she'd always believed that there could be no pleasure or meaningful passion in the physical act without love, but that certainly wasn't true.... Did that mean that she was immoral? Or did it mean—

His face filled her mind, and she recalled the sound of his voice, the tender intimacy of his touch, his demanding kiss, the heat of his body moving against her own.

Think about the book!
Natalya ordered herself, but for the first time, she could not envision her characters. In the tower room at Chateau du Soleil they had acted out all her own suppressed fantasies, more alive than she felt herself to be. Had Eloise and Charles died the afternoon Grey St. James appeared in the courtyard?

Blinking back tears, Natalya vowed to resurrect them on the morrow. It was as if she had lost the key to a secret door, but there had to be a way to get back inside. There
had
to be a way....

Part 4

To be wise and love.

Exceeds man's might.

Shakespeare

Chapter 21

May
1-3, 1814

Francesca St. James, the Viscountess Altburne, rose from her elegant
bonheur-du-jour
. The delicate ladies' writing table, veneered in tulipwood and mounted with Sevres porcelain plaques, had been imported from France and was her latest acquisition for the residence she had recently rented in Philadelphia. The tall, narrow town house on Pine Street was owned by a congressman who had since moved with the capital to Washington, leaving much of his furniture behind. This served Francesca's purposes, since she had come to New York, and now to Philadelphia, ill equipped to furnish an entire house.